Book reading for mystics

http://www.citylightsnc.com/event/edward-fahey-returns-new-novel
Edward Fahey Returns with a New Novel

Sapphire author, Edward Fahey will present his third novel on Friday, May 22nd at 6:30 p.m. The Gardens of Ailana explores the metaphysical, the idea that there are places on this planet not confined to the logic of men or limitations of science. In this modern-day fictional tale, four people with very different backgrounds, each scarred by a horrific childhood, meet at a place of healing where one’s most crippling darkness must be faced down. In the rubble of their lives and broken spirits they learn that in their weaknesses lie their most profound strengths. In their festering wounds they find hope. In The Gardens of Ailana we see through the souls of mystics, experience laying-on-of-hands from the healer’s point of view. Feel at home among wonders and magic. Fahey says of The Gardens of Ailana, “This is the book others have been laying the groundwork for and building towards.” Novelist and teacher, Fahey spent his life hunting magic, seeking out the other sides of reality. His previous novels are Mourning After and Entertaining Naked People. To reserve any of his books please call City Lights Bookstore at 828-586-9499.

Event date:
Friday, May 22, 2015 – 6:30pm
Event address:
3 E Jackson St.
Sylva, NC 28779
author appearance
grownups

Absorbing fiction we grow from as we read.

I have known my work is “Literary Fiction” in that every word counts, and the characters are rich, multi-layered, complex. It is “Magic Realism” in that it reads as though this is just an everyday story while making laying-on-of-hands, reincarnation and such clearly part of that reality, and relevant to our strained and challenging modern lives. But now with the sub-genre “Visionary Fiction” I get the rest of it. Ancient principles and teachings shared without preaching. Powerful emphasis on the limitless potential each has for growth and transformation. These are the bases for every one of my novels. It is all there now. Thank you so much for this new discovery, Ellis Nelson.

Darkness along the Path.

I keep hearing that so-and-so did something pretty nasty, or selfish “for a theosophist”. But to be a theosophist is to have a hunger to know and grow into whatever is Higher, Deeper, and Eternal. It doesn’t mean we’re already there. Not one of us starts out as a fully-fledged and evolved Master of the Wisdom. We each of us start out from somewhere challenging.

Even once we are nicely along the path, it would help to see that we are team-mates in some Higher Work of service to humanity, but that we may still have personality issues to work through.

We’d do well to keep in mind that we each walk a separate path toward enlightenment, and that each has its own unique potholes and cul-de-sacs. Let us honor each other for working our ways past them however we manage to do so, and however muddy we may get our boots along the way.

Sharing the Light with others, I feel truly Blessed.

I am absolutely amazed at the wisdom, deep truth, and heavy duty teachings in “The Gardens of Ailana”! I find insights I have never seen any philosopher or great spiritual teacher even hint at before! (And I hate using exclamation points) Every day it all just pours through – a thousand words or more in a couple of hours – and I am learning so much from each scene and passage. I feel like I am READING each chapter, not writing it.
I am so very, very grateful for these teachings

Will be doing a reading from “The Mourning After” (and perhaps from my new book, “The Gardens of Ailana”) at the Quest Bookshop in New York City on Sunday, May 11th.

Dark night of the mystic soul

Aside

As she wandered back to her cabin, searching for any fond memories she might have buried from her childhood, light faded everywhere around her.

How about the coloring? Children enjoy coloring, how about that? She’d spent so many hours and days on her art. It was as close as she could remember to having her Mamma stand over her with anything even remotely resembling approval. Her books and comics could be tales of Jesus, but coloring books had to be Old Testament because “No child’s impure hand could touch a crayon to the sweet beautiful face of our lord and savior Jesus Christ.”

So the little girl had scrunched down over Daniel in the lion’s den. Samson, screaming, being blinded with daggers and torches. The redder she made the flowing wounds of a man of God shot full of arrows, or stoned to death, the richer the flames of three men being burned in a box, the longer mamma let her stay out of that closet.

But the men still came. Mamma had no say over that. The Cleansers from the church had to step in as her father, since women were weak and needed men to set them straight. Mamma had done the unmentionable, and that sin must be cleansed from the girl child.

Paulette had fought so hard not to hum while she colored, since music was sinful. Now she fought to lock that vision back into its box. It was as close as she came to a happy childhood memory, but even this one gnawed away at her insides.

As that long night of deepening terrors took hold, her room grew colder. The trees outside began to quiver, then wail. The winds rose up, gathering the darkness in around them.

She heard rivers running everywhere, whitewater roaring far off.

But it was only those ominous winds, scraping and clawing through long-dried leaves that should have been left to lie still, and die quietly.

– From today’s chapter of “The Gardens of Ailana”

In “The Gardens of Ailana”.

“What do you think we should call you?” little Sylva asked.

“Do I have to have a name?”

“Most people seem to think so. I think they’d get lost if they didn’t have their names. People don’t usually know who they really are, but they do like to pretend.”

“People think they need a lot of things they’d be better off without.”

“That’s what my mom says, but I’m still figuring on that one.”

“Want a little help?”

“No, I think I’ll just let my brain have it for a while; I’ve got other things to do.”

Some very brief bit, only one or two short, very mildy distracting lines goes here.

“What do you like to eat?” Sylva, lost in her pondering, was all seriousness now.

“I like strawberries.”

“No, that’d be a dumb name.”

“How about calling me Cuthbert?”

“Now you are just being silly. Pay attention. This is important business. People don’t come here and leave here the same, so they should get a new name while they’re here.”

“Okay, I can see that,” he said. “So what’s your brother’s new name? Or is Renn his new name?”

“Renn doesn’t need a new name; he was born here. Only the pretending people need real names when they stop pretending so much. But some people leave and they still don’t know who they are, so I don’t name them.”

“Aren’t you the girl people told me doesn’t talk very much? Guess they didn’t know you very well.”

“Good point,” she said. So then she went back to thinking again.

As they studied the land around them it seemed indecisive, uncertain. It hadn’t yet made up its mind. Was it spring now, or had winter merely blinked? Were some patches of ivy brown, brittle, dried out and returning to soil; or were they looking for a bit of their green again? Had they given up, or would they once again decide to live? Was that which had been there last year coming back, or had they seen the last of it?

“Y’know, people really should listen to children,” she told him.

“I’m beginning to find that out.”

“But not when we’re just being children.”

“Okay, now that’s something I’ll have to think about.”

“It’s good to give each other stuff to think.

“But you don’t wanna make a whole lotta noise when you’re doing it.”

“You mean like talking?” he asked.

“And other stuff. Like eating corn chips.”

He started to write on one of his special lumpy papers. She saw him holding a pencil he hadn’t had before, but hadn’t seen how he’d opened his box. She decided she would just have to start observing harder.

She thought she’d give him something to write.

“You know you can’t pet a stumblebee on the back while he’s flying because that’s where his flying parts are, and that’s why they stumble.”

“Ah, yes. That would be so,” he replied.

“You don’t really scare them when you try to, but they would ‘Really rather you would stop doing that!’ ”

And then she was quiet again. That had been a lot of talking for her. She didn’t usually pay any attention to grownups because most grownups didn’t know very much.

This one was different.

Besides, he was fun to watch because his light went out farther when he thought about people.

It didn’t shrink in and get all hard like that crippled lady’s used to. You could hardly call hers light at all.

“I think I’ll name you Mica,” she told him, “Because you’re all shiny.”

“Mica. I like that. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Mica it is. I am now Mica.”

“You are Mica, the Shiny One.”

 

At end of day, Paulette sat with Ailana on the porch, unwinding from her day of exploration. She’d been thinking about how much she had learned back at the healing and meditation retreat without even knowing it.

She tried to remind Ailana now of one particularly lasting and memorable lesson. “When you told us to listen to the forest, feel that deep Peace, and take it inside us … Well that just changed me somehow.”

“Except I never said that.”

“It … but … You didn’t?”

“Why would I tell you to take peace inside you? It’s already there. All you needed was to find it. I told you to feel it inside you, not take it there.”

– From my new novel-in-progress, “The Gardens of Ailana”.

We are what we believe. We rarely see how things truly are.

Digging through lies you created to hide your True Self,

you may find God.

Or something much better.

 

Chapter Eight

 

An instant spray of sparkle spat outward across the pond.

Gentle footprints of ripple wavered, dissolved, fading away to rich green stillness. All the world was ripening, finding its form, as the scent of new birth hid in breezes.

Paulette poked through the rubble left by long years of misconceptions she had once built her life on. By water’s edge she kicked through the jetsam of defensiveness she no longer need. Budding here and there throughout the wreckage she found the delicate florets of long-hidden kindnesses, just now peeking out through deep shadows.

Harve felt caught up in a web of lies the world really wanted, even needed to believe. They told him to his face, announced in banner headlines, that their world needed heroes. So in some muddled and disheartened way, he kept climbing into the costume they held out before him.

He couldn’t abandon them now.

Confession would get him nowhere; it would hurt a lot of people.

He was trapped.

And yet here was a woman to whom he had just bared his soul throughout a long night of impassioned weakness, and she seemed to understand. She stood beside him still.

In fact they seem to have connected even more deeply than if he had just stayed Mr. Mystery, or played the hero card.

Throughout this morning they’d been wandering. Heading off originally, each had followed his or her own directions, seemingly at random. Bit by bit their paths had drawn nearer to each other. Now the two new and tentative companions walked together, though not directly side-by-side, and barely talking.

Walking, pausing, reflecting; staring at trees right in front of them, or rocks at their feet, but not truly seeing them. They felt stunned, unnerved; bemused as things seen and unseen fell into new places. Like leaves after a great troubling wind. They felt both drained and refilled; alive with new mysteries and possibilities.

Like newborns, everything was new, bright, wondrous, but confusing. Nothing made sense, and yet they had to learn to trust, their hearts surging everywhere at once. This was a brand new world they knew nothing about.

After long silence between them, Paulette spoke.

“It’s so hard to find out all in one night you’ve built your life on beliefs that were just never true.”

“Tell me about it.”

– From my novel, “The Gardens of Ailana”.

Quoting myself.

I tend to stick quotes in my books. Often just quoting myself. Thought I’d get away without doing that this time. But then this morning they started bubbling up out of the ethers, or wherever such ideas come from.

Oh, well; here we go again:

Whatever lies behind, stays behind.

Whatever lies ahead, so be it.

This moment now is forever.

I embrace it with all of my being.

You have become what you are through countless lives and lessons.

There is something you can offer others

if only working on your self-discipline, fighting your own baser urges.

Do that, then.

Do what is offered. Learn and grow as you can.

That in itself is service.

I don’t like calling it “God”.

That leaves you hassling over He, She, or It; and who’s it most look like?

“Powers-that-be” works for me.

But I really like calling it that vast “So much more!”

I guess I still believe in coincidence.

But only for everyday folks.

Once you step fully into your Quest for Spirit, though,

commit to it with all of your being,

your whole life becomes a mesh of synchronized miracles.

You can’t call that coincidence anymore.

Spirit centers we touch, then carry away within us.

I have filled my life with miracles, healings, and amazing spiritual moments. With wonder and magic.
But some parts of me will forever be alive in key moments and places that have blended with my very molecules and energies until they and I have become one form together; one single shared life.
I will always be alive in the magic of those whispering wee morning hours of that desert we camped in, buried deep in the bowels of Mexico.
I will always be in Cartmel Priory in England; and Cartmel will always be in me.
I will forever be holding the robe of St. Francis in Italy, and he will be wherever I am.
I will always have the letters of the Mahatmas in my hands, under my fingers, in my heart. My finger oils, energies, and love, will always be blending there with those of HPB, Olcott, every great theosophist, and the Masters themselves.
I will always be in Rosslyn Chapel, in Scotland.
Dora Kunz and John Coats have loved me, and I have loved them. Dora and Sai dance to me through the fields and the forests, to greet me when I climb out of bed each day.
I don’t say “I” anymore; I say “We”. I am so much more than one man in one place.
I can’t describe it. It just is. And I love it beyond all description.

Shards from childhood.

As my heart clogged up with old pressures, I walked away from photo albums, but just could not shut them. I held treasures she’d worn or left behind, but couldn’t hold her.

We’d only been kids, but I miss her to this day. It lurks in shadowy closets and follows me up unfamiliar steps at night. I breathe it through my troubled heart, and it snags there. It tags along through strange towns, from state to state, driving me, digging at me, leaving me hollow. I hadn’t seen my confinement until M had come along. She’d been my first taste of living.

M had been a long-burning fuse, and the spark that had touched it off. She’d been the birth of imagination, and of everything real. With us it had all been about mystery, and miracles.

I stood in the threshold, peering deep into all that was churning, trying to imagine her as an adult, sitting in the golden haze of a late afternoon in the fall. I pictured a soft distant rustling, birds singing out of season, and a languid blue haze drifting high up in the land where clouds, and heaven, are made. I sat her on a tree stump by one of the lakes, huddled up against the brisk fall glory. Trying to imagine her bright and happy, finally at peace, I prayed to God to grant her all of this. Wherever she was. That sweet, beautiful, tormented soul had earned peace and beauty.

Instead, I saw her rocking into her own, or some shared misery, her arms wrapped around her, and I knew how distant I had grown from my core. M would manage to stay whole and intact in her brokenness, never back away from her truth. I’d rushed to bury mine at the first opportunity, close off to my walled-in childhood, turn away, slam it into some subterranean vault somewhere way far behind me.

M wouldn’t have done that to me. She’d still cherish each lost and happy shard we’d ever huddled over, treasured and polished together. Whatever it had been she’d so privately nurtured had meant far too much to abandon for a little peace of mind. She’d held it too dear. M had been closer to her roots. To the role we’d been meant to play together, though I could never find my script.

But then I had chosen to bail out.

As if I could.

As if the winds, and this mournful autumn bleakness would ever let me.

That poor sweet child had confided in me. She’d said, “People are always leaving me.” She’d sounded so buried in remorse, so convinced that it could never be any other way.

Then, I, too, had turned from her.

It had been so much easier than believing.

But now how would M fit in here? Into this sobbing forest; or this flirting, taunting homestead? Was this a place to end something, heal something, or begin something new?

She had asked me once if I’d planned to stay shut up inside, and I’d thought she’d only meant inside the house. Had she seen I was also boarded up in my spirit? Well, in this boundless, otherworldly forest I can finally see what M had always tried to show me.

Through that which has no barriers, any sized miracle can step in.

Living stories that breathe beyond the book covers.

I am dearly touched by all who have read “The Mourning After” several times. When you so passionately share with me how much more you get out of it each time, how it draws you in deeper, comes more alive, I see that it is more than just a gathering of words. It has a heart. It breathes. It calls to us from inside, drawing us in through our dreaming.

Being love; not needing love.

“The most important aspect of love is not in giving or the receiving: it’s in the being. When I need love from others, or need to give love to others, I’m caught in an unstable situation. Being in love, rather than giving or taking love, is the only thing that provides stability. Being in love means seeing the Beloved all around me.” 
-Ram Dass

Ailana’s Gardens.

Aside

New opening lines for the book?: “I hurt so badly to connect with something.” She didn’t know how many times she’d awakened with those words in her head; that ache in her heart. She wasn’t completely sure what they meant, or what she could do to change anything. She only knew that feeling rode her somehow. Like a horse wearing blinders, she always felt something unseen, controlling each step, yanking at her reins, pulling her up short when she wanted to run free across vast fields she probably only imagined. Or maybe in some strange way remembered.

Dedication: This book is for those who hurt for something more in their everyday lives. Who desperately need to feel connected to something. Something Higher, richer, more meaningful. No matter how much they give to others, no matter how productive, over-stuffed, and generous their lives, they always feel they’re pulling up short.

It’s for those who need to feel what it’s like to heal, and be healed.

For those who need to FEEL again.

To feel something far beyond life’s daily drudgeries.

Moving beyond.

You reach a certain stage in your developmental flow when your life floods over with minor miracles and bizarre synchronicities. Until you get so you hardly notice them anymore; they are just what your life is made of.

– Next may come a time when you learn to stay in the moment, and follow subtle promptings. You get so you no longer need feedback that you are doing what’s right; when and where needed; you just trust and stay centered in the joy of higher service.

– As you pull away from old relationships, outmoded habits and beliefs, others gather around you who may be thought of as a team. But it appears that you WILL have to make room for them. As you leave another behind, though, do it caringly.

– As you learn to swallow your ego, you may also be offered an even bigger challenge: to swallow your anti-ego. Allow yourself to be powerful and do great things even as you open in naked and humble vulnerability to another. This will really test your honesty and adherence to Truth. Can you admit your failures and foolishness, and just as honestly step in beside the big spiritual guns if they need you to be there in some way beside them?

– More stages will undoubtedly lie beyond these first few, but I haven’t run into those yet.

I pray I will be ready as called upon.

Request for my healer friends.

While developing my new novels about hurting people growing into healers, I’m also interested in key moments that really meant something as you developed your sensitivities through Therapeutic Touch, or some other Laying on of Hands type interface. Was there a time when you were riddled with self-doubt, but then it all changed? Perhaps one key interaction when you could no longer deny that you were having an effect; your client was definitely responding and you could no longer tell yourself if was just your imagination, or your client’s own wish fulfillment? Did your growing sensitivities start to affect your outside life as well? Did your life start filling and thrilling with amazing, and helpful synchronicity and “coincidences”? Did people start telling you that you had been showing up in their dreams? Did you believe them?

While partnered up to assess a client, did you see a color some time where your partner on the other side felt a temperature shift? How did you discuss that; how did you rectify the two? Do you feel it anywhere else than in your hands?

As I write these scenes I will have a number of people exploring and growing from such experiences. I’d like to explore how these things hit different people in different ways; particularly how it changes them inside, and how their lives change as they do. These healing and revealing processes don’t have to have come from formal training. Perhaps some traumatic or special event brought them on. Maybe they just started up spontaneously.

Anyone care to share? You can always private message me, you know.

I’m also thinking about including someone who keeps praising Jesus, but not in any crazy fundie “Our guy is the only guy and the rest of you suck” kinda way. I want her to show what his real teachings really offered as she works alongside those of other faiths or none at all. She won’t be central, but I may put her in.

Lots of ideas popping in this tale of healers being themselves healed; care to contribute any of your own? As Mickey Rooney might say, “Hey, kids; my dad’s got a barn! Let’s write a novel!”

Thoughts from recent travels.

Ancient philosophers were explorers and wanted us to be. They wanted us to understand this physical world, but not get stuck here. They didn’t share their insights so we’d over-analyze and repeat their words in endless loops through forever ad nauseum. Their goals never included being quoted and re-translated until they lost all meaning. They sought to be jumping off points, not stalling out points. They wanted to be doorways, not doorstops.

A trained, logical mind can be like a door with well-oiled hinges. But it is not the doorway itself, just a slab pivoting within set parameters.

The doorway can be reached by stepping beyond the door, by turning away from the strictly physical. But you are still merely standing on the threshold.

Freedom, Bliss, and True Knowing can only consume you once you leap through the threshold and fly.

I had cancers on my shoulder and back for years. Just kept piling more layers of ever-bigger bandages on them to sop the blood. They hurt. As they spread, I couldn’t find comfortable positions to sleep in, couldn’t use a seat belt, or wear heavy clothes in cold weather.

So I just made my peace and prepared for the end times.

My niece invited me up to spend Christmas with family. Hugging kids, chasing dogs, laughing, and eating way too much, was immensely healing. Transformational.  As snowstorm after snowstorm hit, family members told me I shouldn’t drive back up into the mountains. I stayed there for months.

Then I got a gal pal. Girlfriends won’t let you get away with that shit. I finally followed through on many lapsed promises to her and went to a clinic. First time I’d been to a doctor in maybe 10 years. He expressed concern. Said I could either spend major bucks on surgery, or hundreds of dollars on some expensive cream. I got home and found a tube of the stuff in my medicine cabinet. Don’t know where it had come from. Tried it for a while to eat away at the buggers, but it dug deeper, wider, and more painful holes until I just stopped using it.

So my lady friend in England (it was a Facebook relationship; we hadn’t actually met yet) told me that since I already sent healing to others around the planet and beyond; why not zap some through myself while I’m at it? She had to keep nagging me. This whole “Healer heal thyself” thing seemed unnatural to me. But every once in a while I did give it a shot.

Then I headed off to Europe. Spent six months touring ancient monasteries, and spooky sites generally. Saw pieces of the True Cross, one of the thorns, bones of apostles, the robe and belt of St. Francis, touched a column Jesus may have leaned against while preaching.

Some sites throbbed with power. I felt every part of me changing.

I’m back in the states now, but I’m not the person, and this is not the body, that left here.

Where the cancer had been there are tiny white spaces. Like somebody erased them.

I’m a romantic, but a realist. When I heard stories of Jesus, or at least his great uncle (Mary’s uncle, Joseph of Aramathea), having set up a church in Glastonbury where King Arthur was later buried, I blew it off and made sarcastic jokes. – But then – when I experienced that site itself- it was like being smacked in the soul with a rock! – The same with Tintagel and the caves of Merlin. – I came away with the feeling that legends are sometimes born, and churches built, on special places where people feel, and are moved by, forces they cannot explain. Arthur and Merlin may never have existed; some Bible stories are completely fictitious. But when you feel some of these places, these artifacts of saints, and come away stunned, you may want to explain that experience to someone. This might be how many of our most endearing and enduring myths have been born. The ones we suspect hold some truth.

Take each myth entirely out of the equation, and you still have the need to open yourself to wonder. To fall away overwhelmed by vast magnificence. Physicists could never cram that into equations; scriptures can only point and fall short; legends live and breathe though the people in them may never have. And still there is wonder; and the need to touch it, to share it, in words that could never quite do.

I’d seen pictures of the Sistine Chapel for so many years I’d grown tired of them. Critical of Michelangelo’s painting style. The fat forearms, pudgy toes, slapping boobs onto guys so he could call them gals … I knew if I was going to be in Rome & the Vatican anyway, I couldn’t just ignore the place, but I really wasn’t expecting much.

But then I am inside. An Italian guard is calling for silence. Reverential organ music is thundering quietly (you would have to experience that to know what I mean). It is one huge, open room. Botticelli figures dance and flow along the walls.

And there – everywhere above you; like the Milky Way over farm country on a clear summer night – is the Creation, and Judgment Day; a plethora of great spiritual beings and moments as envisioned and expressed by Buonarroti himself.

And tears come.

And joy flows.

I spent a long time with St. Francis’s robe and belt.  I stood there meeting him heart to heart and spirit to spirit, examining the textures of the cloth, hand-stitched seams he had probably sewn himself. And then, I kept coming back. It was so far beyond merely beautiful.

We were in that church for hours. Santa Croce is a deeply moving spiritual and heart center. Lovely tree-lined cloisters. The tombs of Michelangelo, Dante, Rossini, Galileo, Ghiberti, Machiavelli, Marconi, Fermi, Florence Nightingale, and many others. With paintings of the assumptions by Giotto, Cimabue, and the like. Art by della Robbia, Donatello, Venezianno.

I felt myself not just lifted up, but driven hard to my highest. I prayed for inspiration, and soon after published my novel.

But most moving and powerful of all was the time spent with St. Francis. We came away together; one shared heart; fused in spirit.

At our favorite spiritual haunts, we could feel the sacredness, the power and spirit of the land itself. Christians built churches there centuries ago on land pagans had already venerated, and consecrated. You can feel the Nature spirit, and the Christ love, empowering and clarifying each other. It is a wonder of the heart to share and participate in that.

All great world teachers teach basically the same things. It’s when self-lauding followers come along after they’re dead and start beating others with claims that Our guy is the only guy, and our way is the only way that the stink of danger and abuse arise.

Seeing science as the true and only source for understanding the universe, or holding spiritual teachings similarly, does not take everything in. Seeing Jesus as the only way and the only true teacher, or Mohammed, or whomever, leaves us locking our doors against the light, but then searching for it through the peephole. All paths can lead ultimately toward the deepest and Highest Truths. Maybe we only get there by treading, and falling short, on one heckuva lot of them.

Those who let their religion confine them to what church leaders tell them about God don’t really know God. Those who believe Science can tell them what the universe is all about confine themselves to what can be theorized, mathematically tested, and cross-checked. Each group is confining itself to different fenced-in areas along the thin outer shell of things. Anyone who relies exclusively on what mind or faith can reveal is seeing only what his own limited awareness can grasp. He is not touching the eternal; only looking toward it, from a distance.

In Holy Cross Abbey, outside, Tipperary, I stood between relics of The True Cross. Wearing my bag of talismans, I lifted my arms and felt immense power flooding in from on High. – Then I felt intensely blessed and profoundly at peace in the tiny chapel St. Margaret used in the Castle of Edinburgh. She had been a true spirit of Christian charity despite being successor to Lady Macbeth. She had owned a piece of the cross as well. – Lynden and I felt early Christian passions mingling with ancient Nature faiths in Rosslyn Chapel, where all sorts of relics might have been hidden. – I’ve felt the surging; sometimes joyous, sometimes agonized and desperate, faith of churchgoers from ancient centuries, and of masons who had built those holy sites. I wore or carried special jewelry, medals blessed by the church, relics of saints, vibhutti from Sai Baba. At some point I will pass these along to those in need, but for now I am sharing our highest moments, pouring this magic into them, creating talismans of my own.

I’m trying to work up how to tell you about the spirit of the tiny child we felt, and who seemed to feel us, in Mary King’s Close, under Edinburgh, but it still feels very raw, and sensitive to me. We abandoned a hurting child who wanted us to stay. She could feel that Lyndie and I knew she was there, loved her, and wanted to stay with her. She didn’t understand why we left. Just like her parents had abandoned her to die in that room, victims of the plague so many long centuries ago. She hurt when we too turned away from her, but she is used to hurting.

The guides take groups into her cold, cold room, with its pile of dolls, where they treat her like she is just a ghost tale to be sported with, and then rush everyone out. I don’t think she understands the words, but she sees and feels people coming and going. She can sense when someone connects with her and truly cares. But then they, too, walk away. She doesn’t know why they are leaving her. Everyone moves on to the next room, turning their backs to her, listening to the guide’s next stories.

But this time, Lynden & I turned from him, calling to her through the underground streets, as the distance between us stretched, and our contact became more vague. The little girl stayed stuck in that tiny, icy room.

Lynden chatted outside with the ticket taker afterward, who told her that at least once a week somebody comes back up to the surface, saying they’d felt someone in that room. Sometimes tugging on their coats.

We spent much of our first day in Edinburgh exploring St. Giles Cathedral, spellbound. As we joined others in wandering reverence, or sat in quiet contemplation, the choir held forth in moving glory.

In the castle we visited the room where Mary Queen of Scots gave birth, and another where the Black Dinner took place. Our hearts sank and stayed there as we moved through the cold cramped corners where hundreds of soldiers starved and froze to death during a siege of the fort that lasted months.

At the very top of the castle, though, St. Margaret’s tiny private chapel opened its sacred aura for all. Just standing in it I felt to be in one of the earth’s radiating centers of love, enfolding all and everywhere in compassion. A tiny, simple place, but so intense with gentle caring. She must have been a beautiful soul.

We took a nighttime tour of haunted sites. It turned out to be so disrespectful of the dead that we stayed behind after midnight when the group broke up, just to apologize to the interred inhabitants of one of its haunted graveyards.

The little dog buried just inside the entrance was the only thing sweet about Greyfriers Churchyard. Lynden and I separated and headed off through graves on opposite sides of the church. She was lost in a sad, desolate feeling. I felt the lingering agony of the spirits there, still wrenching and clawing the atmosphere with pain through the centuries. Turns out more than 1200 men, women, and children, had been had been imprisoned there for signing a letter to the new captor king, telling him they’d cooperate in every other way, but please don’t mess with their religion. He’d taken it as an act of treason; caged them outside through harsh winters, feeding them only four ounces of bread a day. They were tried, tortured, and executed there. Very few escaped. Some were shipped to America, chained below deck as slaves, but their ship sank in icy waters and no one survived. You can still feel their intense and hopeless agony.

Their main torturer is buried there, too. Hundreds have been bitten, scratched, or burned near his mausoleum; day and night. In Greyfriers Churchyard an evil presence slashes through an atmosphere thick with ancient agony. Up to ten percent of people buried in the 1800’s or earlier were unintentionally buried alive. They broke their nails off clawing to get out. You can feel this there, too. The whole cemetery writhed and clawed at you. So many stones from the 14- to 1600’s crawl with skulls, skeletons, scenes showing the horrific triumph of death.

In more recent graveyards; say from the 1800’s; I can still feel the pain of mothers aching for their babies laid out around them. Cemeteries & tombs from perhaps the 1600’s and earlier, though, generally feel empty. There is no connection. There are exceptions, of course. Greyfriers Churchyard in Edinburgh is horrific. But most feel emptied out, like the spirits there have moved on. There may be lifelike effigies atop some of the tombs, but nothing inside them.

I’ve seen a lot of tombs of popes and bishops from long ago. In a few I’ve sensed the passion they’d poured into their work. Sometimes with a hard edge of pompous cruelty.

But on spiritual planes and in the afterlife, all that really matters is the motivation. If they lost themselves in service, with no thought of self, they set themselves free. Any taint of superiority though; toward their followers, or toward other religions; could lock them into their own dark bile and smallness of spirit through the centuries. Feeling the need to lord it over those who have long ago forgotten them may be one expression of limbo.

A place of worship is much more than moments, memorials, and men. More than those who have led, or perhaps MISled it. – It is passion left behind in the stones by masons as they chipped it together. – It’s babies lost in fields by poor farmers and grieving parents who couldn’t make it in for services. – It is need, it’s fulfillment, and it’s an unquenchable quest. – It is unknowable mysteries; and a deep silent knowing. A building is only sacred to the degree that it taps into something that could never be contained within its structure. – Church leaders can only lead by humbly following. They can only offer hope by getting down in the mud with the hopeless. They offer strength to the weak through their own vulnerabilities; their compassion comes from deep resonant empathy. – In ancient abbes, monasteries, and churches I have felt all this pouring through the walls, through the centuries. As these walls of time and structure crumble away, I swim in that vast, uncontainable glory. I become that vastness, the Hope, and the Knowing; and carry it with me everywhere.

I don’t believe it! They just set them down right in front of you and you just carry them off to your reading desk. Seven huge volumes. The Mahatma Letters to A. P. Sinnett. Not even in bulletproof sleeves or anything. You can feel them; you can smell them. Letters by HPB, Olcott, Damodar, Subba Rowe, all of them. Sinnett, Hume, Countess Wachmeister, Judge. Everybody. Right in your hands. The Pillow Dak is there. The note someone wanted to find pinned to a branch high up in a tree. So, from far away in Tibet, that’s where KH materialized it. He’d written, “I was told you wanted me to put this here. What can I do for you?”

Someone wrote a letter to him in India, had it postmarked and mailed. Within minutes he read it, still in its envelope, while he was on a train in another country. He stopped to telegraph a reply. The letter and the telegraph are there along with all sorts of sworn eye witness accounts. Everything. It’s all there, and they just plunk the letters down in your lap. Sealed letters that when opened had been edited and commented on in the margins. The whole amazing story of those first few years of the TS. You feel them tingling all through you.

I’ve seen pieces of The True Cross, body parts of saints and apostles, the robe of St. Francis. Charlemagne’s vestments. I’ve seen Joan of Arc’s helmet. And now this.

I can feel my little molecules just giggling, high-fiving each other, and dancing themselves like little squirming tadpoles into being something infinitely Higher & Brighter.

I don’t know, don’t really care how much longer I have to live, or how much longer my money will hold out, but while I am here I will do what I was put on this planet to do. I have been given many lifetimes of special gifts and experiences all in one. I’ve lived with and been taught by miracle workers and have worked some minor miracles of my own. But then I kept saying No to life and shutting it all back down again.

Well, no more. I am stepping way beyond this tiny, drab, confining world of the physical, into what I am meant to be; what I was put here to do. Wherever it takes me. I am High and getting ever Higher!

So – here we are, just hanging out in our favorite sidewalk cafe in Rome. Really getting into our two liter beers, and the freshest seafood and pasta in the world.

Horns start blaring and a column of cops on motorcycles go by.

That’s normal in this city. But this time the cop on the front bike is standing and waving violently from side to side.

This is not.

The limo drives past. and folks on the street are applauding. The new Pope leans up against his window and waves as he goes by, but I really don’t think he actually recognized me; I think he was just being polite.

Dating from around 3,500 BC, Castlerigg may be the oldest, most atmospheric stone circle in England. Perhaps all of Europe.

In 1919, witnesses watched white light-balls moving slowly over the stones, just as they do nowadays over crop circles beside Stonehenge. Such lights have been observed at ancient sites throughout the world since at least the 1700’s, and may have been among the reasons ancient man built monuments there in the first place.

Castlerigg’s stones seem to relate in eerie ways to Nature around them.

I figured these folks must have been about half my size, so I squatted down to see things from their level. Found what struck me as a story telling rock. Gazing at it long enough, one could see images, and scenes, some moving.

The hill is encircled by mountains – a cozy place of magic and peace. Somehow the lives there seem lively and inviting; not at all somber as I had expected.

Saw a gigantic hillside chalk carving in the distance and decided to drive closer for photos. Passed through the most exquisitely sweet little village. Seemed like hardly twenty homes there. Charming and magical. Fairy tale cottages with thatched roofs, walls laced by wandering wisteria. Just lovely. So I couldn’t let it go. I went home and researched it. Turns out it was the childhood village of Mick Jagger. Keith Richards went to school there.

So many special centers I feel connected to now. Like a spider weaves its web with many links, and as he moves around he feels vibrations from every point. As with karma, every ripple feeds through every other. I carry these spirits within me; just as a part of me lives within them.

There are special beings I move through the world with, as well; but their names I tend to hold much more privately.

There are dark places I carry, like Gettysburg, and Greyfriers Churchyard.

Wherever I wander, they are.

When you touch me, you touch them.

I had cancer spots for years until Lynden suggested I zap them. So I drew down the healing forces, pulling them through me. The cancer went away and I headed for England. I touched lingering spirits in ancient monasteries; stone circles and centers of magic. Merlin told me where to dig to find a special crystal…. And it was like my molecules were changing. I was losing my sense of physical presence. Lynden and I were sick for months and I stayed home. The winter broke records and I stayed inside. I got a devastating earache and deafness in Italy, and could hardly have felt more isolated.

As I healed from this, though, it was like I was building a new body. In recent weeks I’ve been constantly buzzing in some other-worldly kinda way. If I just make the slightest shift from paying attention to my surroundings, I feel the flow of healing pouring through me for all beings everywhere. – I am a part of that flow.

As Lyndie and I were driving home from Scotland yesterday after visiting Roslyn Chapel again (I lingered longer in the crypt this time), I felt like I was just some non-specific force of Nature; pouring benign energy out into the hills. Until then I’d always felt I was directing my zaps. To help those I knew needed it. I had some say in where the healing flowed, and who could benefit.

I pondered over what this new wrinkle might indicate. A tree in the forest is a center of peace, but doesn’t get all anxiety-ridden over where he should be sending that peace. He is just doing what he is. Winds are forces of Nature, but don’t question whom they should be blowing on, and where they should be blowing him.

Now I can offer my help to unseen spiritual beings generally, without specifically addressing Jesus, or Sai, or some other great Master. I don’t have to know whom I’m praying to. If I want to be of service, my ego should not set terms and limitations on that. I want to be there if needed, as needed, in every moment – Period.

The very best, most real, most powerful part of this world is definitely not the physical and temporal. I fought for so long to deny the strange spooky things that happen to me; the things I can do; all those seeming miracles and miracle workers. I wanted logical, acceptable, scientific explanations. – Or, failing that, at least to believe it was only my imagination. I fought my Higher Self back for decades that way!

I finally let go of those levels of denial. I opened more fully to what truly is.

So then I thrilled to all those people re-assuring me that they had indeed seen me, quite clearly, materialize and disappear when I’d traveled out of body to their hospital rooms. I’d ache, and fall back into self-doubt if they didn’t write or call right away, unsolicited, or if I had to prompt it out of them.

I no longer need to hear these long distance pats on the back.

In the end, it is all about letting go. About trusting in the caring guidance of powers and wisdom infinitely beyond the reaches of your own. So why not let myself be that force of nature without asking questions?

When we feel ourselves radiating as healers; as powerful Centers of Light; is there still a part of us that wants to hold back? Telling ourselves that Spiritual Brilliance is for other Beings; much Greater Beings?  That we’re nobody, and we’re just fooling ourselves? Could that just be buckling under to old, outmoded paradigms; thinking we are still that little kid, hanging onto the coattails of bigger, more significant folks? When is it finally time to let go? To stand up and be, and to do, what we were put here for?

As one of those transcended beings once told me, if we hide behind walls we’re ready to break free of, we may be hurting more than ourselves. There are people out there praying for help. Why deny them what we’re able to share?

There must always be those of a nature to doubt. There must also be gullible folk, believing too much and too readily. Ranged between are the true seekers, pilgrims heading homeward into the heart of that Infinite Other.

These would do well to feed both their doubts, and their wonder.

The very best questions don’t lead to answers. They lead to deeper questions.

The joy of learning never fades. It is only the schools that fall behind us.

I have traveled far, and seen many things; in spirit, or merely in body.

Now, wherever I am feels foreign to me, but everywhere I go, I am home.

Friends want to drag you into their darkness

Aside

The universe is based on contrasts: yin & yang / for every action there is a reaction. The world of spirit is no exception. For each teacher trying to lead us toward light there will be another slinging darkness. When we find ourselves dancing in joy we will find friends crowding nearer who want to drag us into their fears, angers, and disillusionment. When we lose ourselves in beauty, others will remind us of ugliness. As our lives fill with magic and wonder, there will always be those trying to beat these away from us with factoids and rumors, with scientific counter-references and left brain limitations.

I picture a dog in a storm outside a large comfortable mansion. He is standing at the door, barking and howling as the masters snuggle inside by the fireplace, dry and warm and feeling wonderful.

They go to the door to let the pooch in, but he won’t budge. He hasn’t been barking for them to let him in; he’s been trying to get them to come outside and share his misery, to join him in this horrible deluge.

So they walk back in to sit again by the fire, to snuggle up in the golden warmth, as he goes back to yapping in the darkness.

Does God know and control everything?

Aside

I don’t think I believe that there is no such thing as coincidence; that God plans every detail, and all that. But I do know absolutely that beyond a certain stage in one’s development, once he is unshakably aware, interacting with that glorious vast whatever day and night, from then on every one of his moments will be woven out of deeply meaningful synchronicities.

Others around him may shake their heads, call it miraculous, say, “Whoa! That was strange!” but he keeps on keeping on, fully open to the next moment, and the purposefulness of every little bit of his life.

Of course this brings up the whole thing about no sparrow falling without God knowing it and all that.But then this all hangs on what exactly the speaker is referring to as “God”. It may very well be that nothing happens without something else knowing. It is certainly true that every little something else is then a part of a larger something else until it all weaves together into that Vast Something Else. – If we then call that Vast, Glorious, but ultimately unknowable Something Else “God”, then okay. In that case I can agree that “God” knows about everything.